


The Eventful First Meeting of the Pissed Off Goalies Club

by sassy_Tuukka_Time_Tantrum



Series: Pissed-Off Goalies Club [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3829381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassy_Tuukka_Time_Tantrum/pseuds/sassy_Tuukka_Time_Tantrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four of the top goaltenders in the NHL decide to meet up and lament about the short-comings of the rest of their teammates but things don't quite go as planned. Based off a Tumblr post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eventful First Meeting of the Pissed Off Goalies Club

**Author's Note:**

> I based this off a Tumblr post that was circulating a few weeks back. There are bits of French in it that I think I got right (if not let me know so I can change it).

Carey Price, Marc-Andre Fleury and Corey Crawford sat in a circle sighing. The rest of their teammates were driving them to the brink of insanity. They all seemed to notice that while they were working themselves into the ground trying to win hockey games, the rest of their teammates looked like they were all skating around as if they had tape on their skate blades and blindfolds over their eyes. So the three of them decided to start a club where they could go and lament about the short-comings of the rest of their teammates. 

They decided that it would be best to meet in secret at a "neutral" location shortly before the playoffs start to have their first "I work my ass of while my team shits the bed" club* (*name to be determined) meeting. Eventually, after some deliberation, they decide that Boston would be a good place to meet. Since the Bruins hadn’t made the playoffs this season, the residents of Boston had already turned their attention from hockey to baseball. Not to mention that according to Price, they would be meeting up with a fourth member in Boston. 

"Who's the fourth chair for?" Crawford asked. 

"Tuukka Rask," Price said, "Trust me when I say, we had it easy compared to him."

Three continue to sit in a silence that was only occasionally broken by one of the three sighing. When suddenly the door opened. The three Canadian netminders looked up and gasped in horror. Tuukka Rask stood in the doorway. His clothes were rather disheveled and covered in a dark red substance that looked strikingly like blood. He was panting slightly and his face was sweaty.

"What the fuck!?"

"Enculé!"

"Tuukka...is that...blood?"

"Bad nosebleed," The Finn responded calmly, "I'm just gonna go wash up a bit." He indicated his crimson stained hands and walked out of the room.

"If that was a nosebleed....he shouldn't still be alive..." Crawford said, “Because that is an awful lot of blood. Do you think he finally snapped?”

“Do you think Tuukka really would….you know…try to kill his teammates do you?” Fleury asked.

“Have you seen that guy angry? I wouldn’t say he’s as bad as Johnathan Quick but I still wouldn’t want to be in the same room as an angry Tuukka.” Crawford said. “You’ve seen that video of that AHL goalie tossing a milk crate on the ice after a shootout loss right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that was Tuukka.”

“That was Tuukka!? Jeeze that was one hell of a throw!” 

"I think someone should go check to see if the rest of the Bruins are okay. I can't be the one to do it," Price said, "That would…Well...it wouldn't go over well."

“For the sake of Tuukka not being able to understand us, we should speak French among us until we figure out what happened.” Crawford said. 

«Eh, Tuukka ne parle pas le français, n’est pas? » (“Uh, Tuukka doesn’t speak French, does he?”) Fleury asked.

« Non, tu es bête? Il est Finlandais! Ils ne parlent pas le français à Finlande! Ils parlent le finnois! Peut-être si nous parlent le suédois, c’est va être un petit problème. Mais nous ne parlent le suédois! » Price said. (No, are you stupid? He’s Finnish. They don’t speak French in Finland, they speak Finnish in Finland. Maybe if we were speaking Swedish, it would be a small problem. But we’re not speaking Swedish.”)

« Pourquoi le suédois? J’ai pensé qu’il est Finlandais? » Fleury asked. (“Why Swedish? I though he was Finnish.”)

« Parce que Antti a dit moi au Finlande, tous les enfants apprennent le suédois à l’école. » Crawford responded. (“Because Antti told me in Finland, all children learn Swedish in school.”)

« Pourqoui? » (Why?)

« JE NE SAIS PAS POURQUOIS! Mon dieu.» ("I DON'T KNOW WHY! My god.)

"So what have you guys been discussing?" Tuukka asked as he walked back in the room.

"Uhh Tuukka, are you okay?" Price asked.

"Yeah, I just had a nosebleed."

"Tuukka, you have what looks like a literal human's worth of blood on your shirt." Crawford said.

"I was painting something dark red when it happened, and I spilled most of the paint on myself."

" Eh, je vais aller et téléphoner…une personne qui travaille avec les bâtons et les rondelles. Et qui habite au Boston." Fleury said just before sprinting out of the room. (Um, I’m going to go and call someone who works with sticks and pucks. And who lives in Boston.)

"H-here, take a seat," Corey said, "You must still be a little woozy."

"D-do you want something to drink?"

"Some water would be good."

The two Canadian goaltenders looked at each other with a look that stated: "You go, I don't want to be alone with him."

"Ah I can get it myself. I need a little bit of fresh air anyway." Tuukka said as he stood and walked out of the room again, leaving the two Canadians to sigh in relief.

« Qu’est-ce que nous allons faire si les autre Bruins sont ne bien pas? » (What are we going to do if the rest of the Bruins aren’t okay?)

« Je ne sais pas. Nous téléphonons la police? Ou peut-être un psychiatre? » (I don’t know. Call of the police or maybe a psychiatrist?)

« Les autre Bruins sont bien! J’ai téléphoné Patrice! Il a dit qu’ils sont allés un restaurant! » (The other Bruins are okay! I just called Patrice! He said they all went to a restaurant!) Fleury cried as he entered the room, nearly giving the other two goalies heart attacks. « Mais, Tuukka n’est pas aller. Patrice a dit que, Tuukka a dit qu’il va peindre quelque chose! » (But Tuukka didn’t go. Patrice said that Tuukka said that he was going to paint something!)

« Merde…où est Tuukka? » (Shit…where’s Tuukka?)

The three looked at each other then as if on cue a very pale Tuukka staggered into the room. The Finn muttered something none of the Canadians could understand as he swayed dangerously on his feet.

“Tuukka, what’s wrong?”

Once again the Finn muttered something none of them could understand before his eyes closed and he sank to the floor.

"MERDE!" The three of them exclaimed as they quickly made their way to the now unconscious Finn. While Crawford and Fleury made valiant attempts to prevent the Finn from hitting his head on the floor, Price got to him first. 

« PRICE AVEC L’ARRET! » (“SAVE BY PRICE!”) Fleury screamed. 

« Ferme ta clape-merde! C’est ne pas drôle maintenant! Il a très malade! » (“Shut the fuck up! That’s not funny right now! He’s very sick!”) Price yelled back. « Téléphoner pour un médecin! » (“Call for a doctor!”) 

« Arrêt! Pourquoi nous parlons le français? C’est Boston! Les gens qui habitent ici ne parlent pas le français! Ils parlent l’anglais! » (“Stop! Why are we speaking French? This is Boston! The people who live here don’t speak French, they speak English!”) Crawford exclaimed.

“Good point. Someone get a damp cool cloth for his head. It looks like he was telling the truth. It’s really no wonder he fainted his shirt smells of paint so bad I’m getting a little lightheaded.” Price said.

“Maybe we should take his shirt off him then. I have a spare shirt that will probably fit him.” Fleury said, “You two are bigger than us. Your shirts would be huge on him.” 

Several minutes later Tuukka's eyelids fluttered and the three Canadians sighed in relief.

"Tuukka, are you okay?"

"What happened?" He muttered.

"You passed out," Price said as he pressed a cold compress to Tuukka’s forehead, "Don't sit up just yet."

"I had another nosebleed while getting something to drink," Tuukka muttered, "I guess it was worse than I thought."

"You had us all scared for a minute," Fleury said, "You just walked in muttered something weird and dropped to the floor.”

“What do you mean I said something weird,” Tuukka muttered, “I was telling you guys I wasn’t feeling well.”

"Uh, that is not what at all what you said." Fleury said, "That was definitely not "I don't feel well" or even "I think I'm gonna pass out." English may not be my first language but I know enough English to know you weren't speaking English."

“Oh,” Tuukka muttered as it dawned on him, “I might have been speaking Finnish…”

“YOU WERE DEFINIELY SPEAKING FINNISH!”

“Don’t yell,” Tuukka almost whimpered as he held his head, “My head is killing me.”

“Sorry but we had no idea that you had actually been telling the truth about painting something. We thought that maybe you had done something to your teammates." Fleury said.

"No I was painting something for my daughter, it's almost her first birthday." Tuukka explained, "Why would I do something to my teammates? They pissed me off big time but I wouldn't go that far."

“We thought you had blood on your shirt.” Fleury said.

“It’s paint,” Tuukka said as he looked down at his chest, “Wait, this isn’t my shirt.”

“Since your shirt smelled strongly of paint we figured it was making you feel worse so we took it off you,” Price said, “It’s Flower’s shirt. We figured that the shirts Crow and I have with us would be hilariously large on you.”

“I didn’t have time to change before I came,” Tuukka said, “I didn’t want to be late. I didn’t think not changing my shirt would be a problem like this.” 

"Tu es bête?" (Are you stupid?)

"Excuse me?" Tuukka said. "I don't speak...whatever…weird language that is."

"French isn’t weird! Finnish is weird!" Fleury exclaimed.

“Finnish isn’t weird, French is weird.” Tuukka argued back.

“Children PLEASE!” Price exclaimed.

“Aren’t you the youngest?” Crawford asked as Price fired a death glare at the older goalie.

"You didn't think breathing in strong paint fumes for however long you were breathing them in for would be a problem? What is wrong with you?"

"I'm a goalie." Tuukka responded.

"Oh Mon dieu," Fleury gasped as he collapsed to the floor laughing. "C'est bon! ’Je suis un gardien de but.' C'est bien." (Oh my god that's good! "I'm a goalie" that's great!)

"Ignore him," Price said, "Just be more careful next time. Be a little late if you have to. Had you changed your shirt, we could have avoided all of this. Including all of Fleury’s stupid questions.”

"Sorry." Tuukka said, "Are you going to need your shirt back?" he asked Fleury who was still on the ground in stitches.

"Marc-Andre Fleury!" Price exclaimed while trying to keep Tuukka’s headache in mind, "Ferme ta clape-merde et parle avec Tuukka! Il a un question pour toi!" (Shut the fuck up and talk to Tuukka. He has a question for you!)

"Eh, qu'est-ce que c'est?" (Eh, what is it?)

"Tu es bête? En l'anglais! Il ne parle pas français!" (Are you stupid? In English! He doesn't speak French!)

"Sorry what is it?"

"Are you going to need your shirt back?" Tuukka asked.

If you wouldn't mind." Fleury said, “It’s one of my better shirts.”

"How did you get here?" Crow asked.

"I drove," Tuukka responded holding up his car keys.

"I think it'd be best if we drove you home." Price said, "You still look extremely pale. And we don't want something to happen to the first and currently only non-Canadian member of the Pissed-off Goalie Club."

"I thought it was the "I work my ass off while the rest of my team shits the bed" club."

"That was the tentative name," Price said, "But it's too long. It doesn't flow off the tongue nicely."

"I like the "pissed-off goalie club" name." Flower said.

“I should be fine to drive.” Tuukka said, “I’m starting to feel better.”

“Tu es bête!?” Fleury exclaimed.

“Can one of you tell me what the fuck that means?” Tuukka asked. 

“Tuukka, you fainted,” Price said ignoring Tuukka’s question for the sake of not pissing off the smaller goalie.

“So it means “you fainted?”” Tuukka asked. 

“No,” Price sighed, “”Tu es bête” Means “are you stupid.” Now you have something to use on Bergy and Talbot.” 

“If I remember it,” Tuukka said.

“But seriously Tuukka, I don’t think you should be driving,” Price said, “You still look really pale.”

“I’m starting to feel better though,” Tuukka said.

“Alright, here’s the deal, if you can sit up then stand up without getting dizzy at all, I’ll let you drive yourself home,” Price said, “But one of us will go with you and the rest of us will follow you home. If you can't sit up without getting dizzy, one of us will drive you home.”

“Fine,” Tuukka said as he sat up. He then immediately regretted his action as his head spun and his vision darkened as he felt himself blacking out again.

Price realized that was happening with the smaller goaltender and quickly steadied Tuukka then slowly pulled him back to a resting position. “You’re not driving yourself home.” He said, “End of discussion.”

“I don’t think you would want to pass out behind the wheel of a car,” Crawford said, “I don’t think recovering from a car crash would be a fun way to spend the off season.”

“You have a little lady about to turn one right?” Fleury asked, “You don’t want to do anything that would cause you to miss spending time with her. Trust me, little ones grow fast.” 

“You’re what, twenty-eight years old,” Price said, “You have a long and promising career in front of you. Think about what would happen to that career if you get in a crash because you passed out at the wheel. Do you really want your career to end at twenty-eight? I’ll have you know, I don’t think I would ever be able to face the Bruins again if something happened to you because we let you drive yourself home in your condition.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad thing for us,” Tuukka muttered smiling, "Maybe we would finally beat you guys."

“Shut up.” Price spat, "You're not driving yourself home. And that's that."

“You guys are right.” Tuukka said, “I’m in no condition to drive myself home. I think I’m ready to sit up again though.”

"Come on Tuukka," Price said as he slowly helped Tuukka sit up, "Let's get you home so you can rest. Who do you want to drive your car back to your place?"

"Crawford," Tuukka said, "I trust him a little more."

"Someone still has to drive you home." Price said as Fleury whined: "But I'm a good driver!" in the background.

“You can do that,” Tuukka said, "I trust you more than I trust the other two."

“Are you ready to try standing?”

“Yeah.”

Price and Fleury slowly helped Tuukka to his feet while the Finn tightly shut his eyes, “Are you okay?”

“Really dizzy…” Tuukka muttered as he shut his eyes.

“Are you going to faint again?”

“I don’t know,” Tuukka muttered, “But it’s starting to go away.”

“Okay,” Price said, “We’ll take it slow.”

The three Canadian goaltenders escorted the Finn to his home. The three of them were relieved that the Finn hadn’t done anything to his teammates. However, while the Finn’s alibi checked out, Patrice Bergeron was not at a restaurant with the rest of the Bruins. Elsewhere in the great city of Boston, “Perfect Saint Patrice” Bergeron was looking for a place to hide twenty-two bodies.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sorry.


End file.
